


A hand to hold (to make it through the night)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cats, Chronic Illness, Domestic Bliss, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-02-20 10:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt: Can you write some trevilieu: one of them's had a particularly exhausting day/week at work? (can be canon setting or modern)Treville takes good care of an exhausted and overworked Richelieu.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Treville closed the front door behind him, leaving behind the night and his workload. He took off his jacket and threw the soaked red scarf he’d borrowed from Richelieu on the electric space heater by the wall. He looked up from taking off his gloves when he saw that there was no cat in sight.

When he came home late he was used to being greeted with opinionated meows by at least three of Richelieu’s five cats. But the hallway was empty.

Surely not every single cat was outside, hunting birds and prowling the rooftops?

Treville put his bag on the floor beside the space heater. The house was bigger than he’d ever thought he’d own. Too big for two people, some might say.

But sometimes a family was two men and five mischievous cats.

The lights were on in the living room. At midnight.

And Treville could hear no soft music from the radio and no sound of pages turning.

The air didn’t smell like Armand’s herbal tea. It smelled like vomit.

Treville stepped into the living room, half expecting to see Richelieu cleaning up cat sick.

That was not what he saw.

Treville had seen Richelieu in debilitating pain before. At the beginning stages, Richelieu’s face would pale and he’d start pacing and working faster. At the second stage, his hands would shake uncontrollably and his neck would become blotchy. From there he would downward spiral into being unable to do anything much but sweat through his clothes and puke into a nearby bowl. That stage was one he refused to show to the world, hurrying home before things would get that bad if humanly possible.

The last stage was one Treville had only glimpsed.

Usually in the middle of the night, just before his husband asked him for the serious pain medication or to phone for an ambulance.

Richelieu was lying on the sofa in his nightclothes, with a blanket covering his bony limbs and surrounded by cats.

This would have been the ideal view on any other day coming home from an exhaustive shift at the station. Had it been any other night, he’d be making a roast beef sandwich and watching the cats play while Armand talked about his day.

Well, he’d barely seen Richelieu this week. The man had been working around the clock, making calls and filling out paperwork. He’d been reading and replying to e-mails when Treville had gone to bed and the glow of the laptop had not dimmed all throughout the night all week.

Treville faught the urge to run to Armand’s side. Sudden movement could cause Richelieu to feel disorientated or instinctively try to curl up, all bad things when the pain levels were this high.

So Treville walked slowly, eyeing the plastic bowl at the foot of the sofa. He’d clean it later, when Richelieu was asleep. Maybe he’d even throw it away. They had bought plenty of bowls for just this purpose last month.

Richelieu was very, very still.

“Armand?” Treville asked, as gently as he could.

He kneeled in front of him, covering Richelieu’s cold fingers with his hand.

Richelieu opened his mouth but no sound came out. His eyes were too shiny and the skin around them was swollen.

“Do you want me to call the ambulance?”

Richelieu shook his head.

“Let me help you lie down in bed, then,” Treville said.

The bed was better for Richelieu’s back and it was closer to the master bedroom, in case he needed to vomit again.

Ever so slowly, Treville took a hold of Armand’s shoulders and pushed until he was sitting up. He kept an eye on the bowl on the floor just in case he’d have to yank it towards them if Richelieu needed to be sick.

The journey to the bedroom was slow, but steady. Treville had one hand around Richelieu’s waist and another on his shoulder in case he’d faint and he’d have to be scooped up. The cats watched them, tails swishing.

When Armand had sat down, Treville busied himself with finding clean pj’s and getting the emergency dental care kit: a new toothbrush, a plastic glass full of water, some toothpaste and mouthwash. And a little bowl to spit in. There was no need to go to bed with your mouth still tasting sour.

While Treville let the water run to become warm so he could wet a washcloth to clean off lingering sweat, Armand turned on the electric blanket and gulped down his pain medication, which had been in the nightstand.

“Have you called work to tell them that you’re taking the day off for the next few days?” Treville asked, the warm washcloth moving over Armand’s neck and shoulders.

“Yes,” Richelieu said, his voice low and cracked.

“Good,” Treville said, the washcloth sliding over Armand’s back. Then Treville picked up a velvety soft cloth, the sort that cost more than an entire month’s salary and dried up the water on Richelieu’s body before it got the chance to get cold.

Around them, the sounds of cats making themselves comfortable in their baskets and beds was heard.

“How was your day?” Richelieu asked, opening his eyes when Treville started rummaging around in a drawer in search of his own nightclothes.

“I put a brochure for horseback-riding classes on D’Artagnan’s desk,” Treville said. “He talks about his old horse all the time, so he must miss him.”

“Hm,” Richelieu said. “Didn’t you give him one about kick-boxing a while back?”

“He’s still got a lot to learn,” Treville said. “I spent most of the day buried in paperwork and e-mails about delegation and tactics to increase effectiveness within the station.”

“At least you are home now,” Richelieu said, adjusting the electrical blanket underneath his back so that it would heat a painful knot near his spine.

“Yes,” Treville said, buttoning up his nightshirt. It was wrinkled, unlike Armand’s crisp one. He got under the covers and kissed Armand softly on the lips. “Good night.”

Treville could feel Armand’s smile in the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The body and the mind could keep working well past the point of total exhaustion. It was a quality that had kept mankind alive for as long as it had exited.

However, it was not a good idea to push well past those boundaries on a regular basis if you could avoid it.

Treville knew that there were times when you had no choice on the matter, when the only option was to keep going until you were running on fumes and determination.

It wasn’t a good long-term plan to keep doing that.

“This is a bed,” he told Richelieu, who was buttoning his nightshirt with a far-away expression on his pale face. “You use it to sleep on when you are tired.”

Richelieu just nodded. There was a crease on his cheek because when he’d fainted earlier he’d landed on the rug.

“I hit the wall,” Richelieu muttered, standing up on shaky legs.

A term for when the body downright refused to cooperate any longer, the very bones protesting and all movements slowing down to a snail’s pace. At that point, the pain had usually become horrific, or Armand would just faint from exhaustion.

At least he hadn’t fainted in the middle of the staircase this time.

Treville supported him to the bed, where Richelieu sat down again and began rummaging around in his nightstand for his medication.

“No waking up in the middle of the night to finish your paperwork,” Treville said, opening the window just a bit to let the air into the bedroom.

“Jean-“ Richeleiu began, his tone the one he used when addressing a meeting full of wealthy clients. He looked affronted.

He looked like he was considering kissing Treville until Treville would agree to just about anything he asked for.

Then Richelieu leaned back against the headboard, his frown deepening.

“I sent Jussac a text that you’ll be taking the morning off ‘cos of your health,” Treville said, handing Armand his sleep-socks, the ones with the yellow flowers. The electric blanket was quicky wrapped snuggly around Armand’s shoulders.

There would be time for kissing later.

“What?” Richelieu asked, gulping down his medication. “We have a meeting at noon and need to prepare-“

“You can call him in the morning to fetch you if you are feeling better,” Treville said, slipping under the covers. “You need to rest, Armand.”

“Goodnight, Jean,” Richelieu said, wrapping himself in the bedsheets. Four of the five cats immediately jumped on the bed and made themselves comfortable.

Treville closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

The important thing right now was not to faint in front of the staff.

Richelieu had spent all day solving problem after problem, big and small. He’d done more paperwork today and attended more grueling meetings than most people did in a month. He’d even talked to the press to make sure that everything would run smoothly and they’d gotten a nice shot of Louis looking dapper in his bespoke suit.

That one photograph would mean that Louis would be pleased for some time, which minimized the probability of him arguing with Richelieu about nothing at all, which was always a plus in Richelieu’s book. Most of the work today had involved making sure that there wouldn’t be much need for intensive damage control later on. Politics was often a cruel game, with long hours and endless traps.

He stood up from behind his desk, aware of every eye on him so he made sure not to cling to the desk itself and straightened his back. Pain loomed on the horizon like a falcon among the clouds.

“Ready to go home, sir?” Jussac asked, already holding Richelieu’s steaming travel mug and red-lined coat. “Treville must be waiting for you.”

For a brief moment Richelieu wondered why Jussac would know that, but he shook his head. Treville might have sent a message or two to Jussac, as he did on Richelieu’s sick days when he told Jussac that Richelieu wouldn’t need to be picked up to go to work.

“It _is_ late,” Richelieu managed, nodding at the others as he accepted the mug. In his haste he’d forgotten some of his medication at home, but the tea was soothing enough to relax his shoulders and smooth his brow. His heart was fine, so were his lungs. He still had enough time to get home before the migraine would drown him in pain.

The air outside was cool enough for him to justify hurrying towards the waiting car, which was already warm and close enough to the front entrance so that there was no need to worry about falling on the concrete if the exhaustion would win and he couldn’t take another step.

Jussac opened the car door for him, already humming some song about spring.

Richelieu let himself sink into the plush car seat, closing his eyes. He took a few sips of his tea, securing the mug in its holder so he wouldn’t drop it if his hands would become unsteady.

Exhaustion clawed at Richelieu, poisoning his bloodstream and numbing every limb until there was nothing but cloudy awareness of the world around him. Days like this were few and far in between, thank heaven.

But he knew every bump in the road, every turn and every light, so opening his eyes to see how far they’d come wasn’t an issue. It was the same five days a week, sometimes more when things inevitably went to hell. And Jussac was always careful to play soft music on the way home, especially after days like this. Strings and choirs and symphonies.

Richelieu drifted in that place spot in-between dreams and the waking world, hearing distant church bells and the slide of robes on stone. These sounds were neither dreams nor reality, only fragments of another word beyond our reach.

It was only when his phone rang that he stopped listening to the clang of armor hitting the floor and the scratching of a quill on parchment. Richelieu opened his eyes to see his phone lit up and Treville’s name on a dark background that covered his preferred wallpaper which displayed all his cats.

“I’ll be home soon,” he told Treville, who sounded hoarse but oddly cheerful. Maybe he’d had a good day at work or finally found his hat. Treville hummed an affirmative and said goodbye.

It was only a few minutes later that Jussac pulled into the driveway and helped him out of the car. Richelieu pulled out his keys and waved goodbye to Jussac, who waved back, if a good deal more energetically.

Richelieu was greeted with the scent of rising batter and the meows of three of his cats. He took off his shoes and coat, resisting the urge to wander into the living room and taking a nap on the couch. His back wouldn’t thank him later if he did that.

“You’re here,” Treville said, drying his hands with a dishtowel. “Louis said that the press conference dragged on for far too long.”

“Did he send you photographs of me?” Richelieu asked, opening the medicine cabinet.

“With cat stickers,” Treville said, showing him the photo on his phone. In it Richelieu was standing behind the podium, pointing at the sky. “Said you looked like you were doing a sermon.”

“That’s just how I always look when I’m at work,” Richelieu said, swallowing his meds by downing the rest of his tea. A bowl of warm vegetable soup was on the kitchen table so Richelieu sat down and considered the pros and cons of eating now versus not eating and going straight to bed. He ate some of it, thinking of it as energy he could use later on.

“Like you are going to send everyone to hell if they don’t listen to you?” Treville asked, wandering towards the oven. “Well, at least Louis looks like he’s having fun.”

“Hm,” Richelieu said, narrowing his eyes at the oven instead of heading over to the living room where his glasses lived. The cats were all staring into the oven as if it was a television show. “Why are you baking a cake so late at night?”

“Because it’s best served warm,” Treville said, taking the cake out of the oven. “And had to go to the shop earlier because we’d run out of eggs.”

He could smell the butter and sugar from here. Treville hadn’t added vanilla paste, just some extra salt. It was Quatre-Quarts cake, the recipe that had been served for generations in the Richelieu family.

“That’s not your favorite cake,” Richelieu observed, welcoming the gust of warmth before Treville closed the oven door. Not that Treville usually baked at all. He just went to the high-end bakery and brought home pastries and sandwiches and cakes.

“It’s yours,” Treville said, a hand on Richelieu’s elbow. “Since its your birthday I thought you’d like something homemade, since we’ve been too busy this year to plan something big.”

“Ah,” Richelieu said, blinking. “Yes.”

How in the world had he forgotten his own birthday but could remember the most minute details he needed to know before every meeting he’d had today?

“I figured you’d want something small and low-key this time since you didn’t discuss it much,” Treville continued, his lips almost brushing Richelieu’s ear. “No grand parties or holidays, just a quiet evening at home.”

Richelieu nodded.

“I’m sure we can find something to do to pass the time while the cake cools,” Richelieu said, grinning up at Treville.

And they did.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was on days like this that Treville fantasized about long holidays as he was driving home from work. Just cleaning up his desk and walking out the door. Leaving the entire mess behind him and starting a new life in the countryside for a while.

Horses, fresh air and plenty of time to go on runs.

At least his sister would be happy about it.

Everything that could have gone wrong today had done so. His coffee had been bitter and full of chunky grains that were so large that he’d ended up chewing them. His inbox had been full of all caps shouting because of evidence going missing.

And then he’d had to reign in his temper when his boys had gotten themselves tangled up in another mess. He didn’t even want to think about the mess, it would only cause another headache.

Whenever Treville had brought him to the countryside, Richelieu had looked around with interest and then proceeded to treat their stay there as a romantic getaway, which had in fact been Treville’s plan all along. There was nothing like spending a weekend away from the city with Richelieu after he’d finally managed to finish some project about increasing the funding for the arts and language, since that Richelieu was a) very smug b)feeling appreciated c) very down for victory sex on whatever surface they could find.

Treville sighed. He knew that in a few weeks he’d manage to get everything sorted, but that didn’t mean that the time it would take to do so wasn’t stressful. He could feel the rigid tension in his shoulders and his eyes burning from staying up since before dawn.

Treville waited for the signal to change, debating if turning up the music on the radio would be enough to drown out his thoughts. He turned up the music a little bit, realized that the song was about horses and changed the station until it was playing the sort of classical music that Richelieu liked. Treville breathed out, trying to leave his worries behind as he drove farther away from the station and closer to his house. Parking the car and heading towards the door was so ingrained that he was rummaging around in his pockets for his keys almost before he’d realized how he’d come to stand in front of his own door.

He began taking off his coat and shoes, ignoring the mews of Richelieu’s cats as he fought the urge to just throw it all on the chair in the hallway and stomp to the living room where he wanted to flop down on the couch and sleep until dawn.

Or spend the rest of the night on his laptop, going through file after file until he’d made a dent in his workload.

Instead he found himself sitting down on the chair, with one shoe off and the other one still on his foot, staring at nothing at all.

He didn’t look up until he felt Richelieu’s warm hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” Treville managed.

“Good evening,” Richelieu said, blinking. “I’m guessing that today wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

“How did you figure that out?” Treville said as at least three cats circled his legs and gnawed at his shoelaces.

“Well, you look as if you are thinking about arresting the wall,” Richelieu replied. “And D’Artagnan sent me a photo of your angry expression and multiple messages with teary-emojis and fearful ones.”

“Why do you even have D’Arganan’s phone number?” Treville asked, untying his shoe and pulling it off. Then he threw it in the direction of the shoe rack.

“For emergencies,” Richelieu said, something steely lurking behind his expression. For a moment he looked like a man who was perfectly willing to use whatever means he had at his disposal in his pursuit of making sure that whatever problem he’d face would be solved with maximum efficacy.

“I’ve made soup,” Richelieu said, pulling him up. “We’ll eat and then I’ll draw you a bath.”

Treville followed Richelieu inside their spacious kitchen, breathing in the scent of homemade soup. Buying the pre-made stuff didn’t cut it anymore after spending years eating the sort that was made from scratch.

The vegetable soup was delicious and the bread that was served with it was just as good. Treville was aware of all that, but it was as if it was simply information that registered instead of sensual pleasure.

Richelieu’s hands shook as he put his bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, his face pale in the moonlight from the window.

“I can just take a quick shower,” Treville could say.

That was what he always did, washing the sweat and grime from his morning runs off as fast as possible and dressing before work. The bath was Richelieu’s preferred way of washing, at least when he wasn’t in a hurry.

“Just go to bed, I’ll take care of everything,” was also an option.

But Richelieu was smiling, his eyes hopeful. Their roles when taking care of each other were so rarely reversed like this.

Treville rinsed his own bowl and spoon and put them away. The water was running upstairs.

So he climbed the stairs and was greeted with the sight of Richelieu wearing only a scarlet bathrobe while pouring the rest of a bottle of something lavender-scented into the water.

The bathtub was large, easily accommodating them both. Soft towels had been stacked in easy reach from the tub and Richelieu had even lit a few candles.

“You’ll join me?” Treville asked as he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it into the hamper in the corner. Then came the trousers, socks and underwear.

Richelieu only smiled in response, closing the door behind them so that the cats wouldn’t get a show. His face was even paler than it had been in the kitchen.

Treville sank into the scorching water, closing his eyes as the tension in his shoulders and back relaxed just a fraction.

“I’ve already taken my medication, so you’ll have to make sure I don’t fall asleep on you,” Richelieu said, untying the soft belt at his waist.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Treville said, adjusting how he sat on the non-slip mat on the bottom of the bath. He found a washcloth on the rim of the tub alongside a high-end bar of soap and started scrubbing his neck and hands.

Richelieu was still smiling, his neck and ears flushed.

The bathrobe slid to the floor.

The water rose as Richelieu lowered himself into the tub, clearly pleased with himself.

Treville continued scrubbing his body, enjoying the sensation of the hot water washing away the tension in his body as well as Richelieu’s eyes on him. He had never really understood how someone could spend hours just sitting in the bath unless they were reading a novel. Or somehow managing to sleep without being in danger of drowning.

 It just didn’t feel like an efficient use of anyone’s time.

Bathing as a relaxing activity was all fine and good. Richelieu shamelessly leaning back while looking at him like he was the eye candy in some old movie was better.

Richelieu dragging him closer by his waist until there was no space between them and kissing him until they both ran out of air was the best.

It was a very relaxing bath.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

“Give me that juice,” Richelieu said, making a vague gesture at the kitchen table. He was standing in front of the teakettle in his red nightgown, hair still wet from the shower and reading the newspaper.

Treville blinked in the early morning light, having been utterly occupied by his morning routine of buttering his toast and proceeding to shove the entire thing into his mouth while the coffee brewed.

There was no juice on the table.

He looked around the kitchen to find his own green smoothie standing next to Armand’s fruit salad, both ready for them to take to work. A peek into the fridge resulted in moving aside the leftovers of last night’s vegetable soup and a slice of lemon tart Armand had brought home from work and given to Treville.

No juice.

Not even some orange juice.

They did have almond milk, but that was not juice.

Even the cats had begun looking around the kitchen, as if trying to help out.

“I don’t think we have any,” Treville said, cramming what was left of his buttered toast into his mouth. “Did you leave it outside or in the car when you came home or something?”

Richelieu was still reading the news, having abandoned his newspaper and was now scrolling on his phone with an odd look of delight on his face.

Treville put a teacup on the counter in front of Richelieu, who had absentmindedly turned off the electric kettle and was now busy looking like a man who had just destroyed at least five of his enemies in a single stroke.

Hang on, D’Artagnan had made a similar comment just last week, watching a dramatic tv show on his phone while on his break. He’d been too exited by the show to remember that he was drinking coffee and had held his cup half-way to his lips for five solid minutes while making sounds that might only have been understandable and heard by the local dogs.

An expression of delight, maybe?

“You think that today is going to be fun at work, then?” Treville asked, pouring coffee into his travel mug.

“It’s going to be delicious, Jean,” Armand said, putting his phone down and waiting for his tea to steep. “It’s always wonderful when things…fall into place.”

And then he grinned, clinking his teacup to Treville’s travel mug.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: self harm
> 
> For the prompt: Blue Monday

Richelieu was a terrifying man in January. The endless meetings meant that he left the house before dawn, with his leather briefcase full of notes and an extra shirt identical to the one he was wearing. And as ever, horrifying amounts of caffeinated tea.

Every other month was merciful in comparison.

Richelieu did not sleep, instead he wrote speeches and revised endless documents on his laptop. Some nights, he did not even come home. Sure, this kind of behavior because of stress at work was not just something that only happened in January. But those periods usually only lasted a few days. They are the exception and not the rule.

Treville had his own troubles, answering calls from frightened people and taking care of his men in the darkness clouding their city. The winter was still clutching the country, the cold seeping into people’s bones and freezing their roads and homes.

Both of them spent most of their time doing damage control, de-escalating situations before things become unmanageable. Treville began wondering if he should just skip boiling water and just eat coffee beans on their own to save time and cut out the middle man.

He knew how hectic and difficult January was for Richelieu, how frantic his coworkers were to catch up after the holidays. He had woken up to Richelieu peering at his laptop in bed too often not to know about how bad things had truly become.

Gradually, Richelieu’s steps as he left the house became stomps of rage and exhaustion, so Treville put some emergency medication on the table in the foyer and into the pockets of his coat. Just in case.

And the electrical blanket on Richelieu’s side of the bed.

And the Treville bought a huge amount of vegetable soup that kept them both going for over a week. Bread fresh from the bakery, fruit from the markets and enough cat food for all the cats.

Just enough to keep their heads above water.

 

A text message from Jussac lit up his phone on a Monday afternoon, telling him that Armand had gone home for the evening and would be taking tomorrow off work. Then there was a row of sad emojis. Treville looked at the heap of paperwork on his desk, his dusty lamp, his bright screen.

He left it all behind, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys.

No one shouted, no one asked if he was going to a scene of crime.

It was January.

Everyone knew what that meant.

 

Treville arrived at home, barely remembering how he got there. He’d focused on making each turn, turning the steering wheel, using the brakes. Small decisions to deal with the journey, largely subconscious. He did this every day, after all.

Richelieu was sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by cats. He was wearing one of Treville’s old, worn dress shirts. The sort that was too big on his slight frame and Treville only wore underneath warm pullovers in the very depth of winter.

Treville’s phone was dark, silent. Richelieu’s fancy one was abandoned somewhere, turned off.

Good.

The bandages on Armand’s forearms are spotless, his eyes tired.

Years ago, Treville would have let the horror show on his face. He’d have found more bandages and water, shooing away the cats.

But now, he knew that Armand had already taken care of the wounds. His forearms look fine for a few inches above the wrist, so that no one seeing him wearing his bespoke shirts could ever guess about the scars. Richelieu never pushes the fabric to the elbows.

It is not as bad as it was, once.

Louis did not know.

And he never would.

Tonight, Treville sank to the floor beside Richelieu, taking his bony hands in his in silence. Words would not matter now. There was nothing to say that had not already been said a thousand times.

Richelieu’s hands were warm.

His breathing was steady.

Later, they would find something to eat in the fridge and try to drink something. But for now, they would stay on the floor until Armand was ready to stand up.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Bringing Richelieu some dinner at work was a feeble excuse to see him, of course. The determined walk they drilled into you at the police academy helped a bit in making the new security guards alarmed but they relaxed as soon as Jussac waved cheerfully at him and practically dragged him inside the building.

The paper bag with the freshly sliced fruit and still-warm bread crinkled as Treville made his way to Richelieu’s office, glad that he’d remembered to bring some teabags as well.

It was his day off, so he’d loaded the washing machine, fetched the dry cleaning and gotten groceries. He’d even managed to clean the house and go for a long run before hurrying home to feed the cats.

Richelieu was standing by the window in his office, wearing a bespoke suit so well cut and so outrageously expensive that he’d seen grown men stop breathing properly when they saw it. The red silk tie completed the whole outfit, of course.

Richelieu’s neck was flushed, his hair was a wild mess. The smile on his face was a victorious one, almost giddy. Clearly it had been a very successful day. Tomorrow would be a day for reading news about what had happened, seeing Louis posing for pictures and enjoying being interviewed alongside Richelieu about their work. But for now, Treville had other things on his mind.

Richelieu closed the curtains so that they made a dramatic swooshing sound, because that man could not stop being dramatic if you paid him to do it.

“I didn’t bring a comb,” Treville found himself saying as Richelieu looked at him as he was going to devour him. No matter how neat Richelieu's hair was in the morning, it would always end up as a fluffy cloud as the day wore on.

The smile on Richelieu's face was the same one he'd had on their wedding night, so many years ago.

Alright then.

 

Treville adjusted the collar of his jacket, closing the door behind him. He put the bag down on the nearest chair as Richelieu strode toward him, just to make sure that the food wouldn’t get in the way.

Was this office soundproofed?

Why was this office always so goddamn warm?

 

Richelieu almost crashed into him, pushing him so that Treville’s back hit the wall. Treville took revenge in burying his hands in Richelieu’s hair as they kissed. Richelieu’s hands deftly unbuttoned Treville’s jacket, which soon slid to the floor.

Sure, they could have just greeted each other, made a few comments about seeing each other in the evening and then Treville would’ve headed back home. Had they done that, Richelieu would perhaps been a bit snappier at his co-workers, or poured his passion into clearing his inbox or writing another speech.

But with Richelieu’s body pressed against his and trying to hide his moans as Treville stroked him with ease that only came with practice and time, Treville could not find a way to care about any other option than this one.

At least they hadn’t ended up on top of the desk this time.

Perhaps next time.

 

Some days, Treville suspected that one of the reasons Richelieu had bought such a sturdy desk was not just because it was made by a master woodworker, but because it could withstand a great deal of punishment. It was not the sort of desk that complained when you heaped it with paperwork and heavy lamps and it certainly hadn’t even creaked when they’d…been busy.

His own breathing becoming hitched, Treville tried to focus on how the silk of Richelieu’s tie felt against his skin, on the scent of Richelieu’s gentle shampoo, on how Richelieu’s hands moved with breathtaking skill.

They broke apart, grinning like teenagers. Cleanup was easy, routine and soon they were fixing their rumpled clothes and making sure that they looked somewhat professional.

“I’ll see you in the evening,” Treville said, not even trying not to grin. He patted the paper bag on the chair so that Richelieu wouldn’t forget that it was there.

“Yes, dear,” Richelieu managed, grinning back. “I’ll be there early.”

“I bet you will,” Treville said, opening the door.

When he looked back before closing it behind him, Richelieu was smiling fondly.

Treville waved goodbye.

The drive home was pleasant and when Treville checked his phone, it was full of messages from Jussac, which showed Richelieu’s smiling face and a bunch of thumbs up emojis and stars. Louis had sent lots of heart emojis as well.

Ah, Treville had the feeling that it was going to be a very good evening indeed.


End file.
